Escape

This morning, Val, who is under the illusion that she actually manages the people who work at the Breakfast Club, was in an accusatory mood with me. As soon as she walked in she bellows, "Mr. Elliott! What are you doing getting one of my employees drunk so that they are late for work?"

"I don't know Val," I calmly reply in my Chaplains voice, "what happened the last time that you got me drunk with Johnny O and Judy?"

"That's different," she exclaimed before changing the subject.

"And what are you doing having a breakfast meeting at some place other than the Breakfast Club?" she demands.

Who knew that Val can read?

She obviously saw yesterday's blog and, now that I think about it, probably got Nick to read it to her. Nevertheless she was aware that I had a meeting at Larry's Restaurant in Savannah.

"Well," I reply as she sits next to me waiting on the answer, "do you remember the last time that I had a meeting here?"

She has a blank look on her face.

"I sat right there in 24," I said. There are six booths in the front part of the Breakfast Club, but for some reason they all number in the twenties. I suppose it is part of the Club's Master Plan.

"I was meeting with the Chairman of my Board, who was an intense little fellow back then, and the two of us really didn't gell. But we were trying to find some common ground. Anyway, the moment I walked in and he got intense, you started throwing toast and bacon at us whlie he ate. Do you remember that?"

"Oh yeah," she sleepishly replied. "Sometimes when I get started I can't stop."

"Tell me about it," I answer. "And you are amature compared to the things that Bruce used to do, but my Board Chair never got over it. He's never been back."

"I was looking after you," she said with a smile.

And it had been true for years that the Breakfast Club has looked after me. Especially when it came to work. If people got too intense or serious with me, toast would fly. At me and whoever I was with!

Or coffee would miss the cup and be poured on the counter in front of whoever was intruding into my private time. "I am so sorry, I've never missed the cup before."

Or Franklin, who is brown, will come over and pick up my glasses and stick them in his pants and do a little dance in place before placing them back down. He does all this without saying a word.

Or Jalapenos would secretly be inserted in the ham and cheese omlet that the person had ordered so that the first taste would lead to screams at the counter and demands for water.

Or Johnny O would suddenly jump up from his seat across from me and exclaim, "I ain't listening to this shit!" and storm out of the place.

I could go on.

The point is, I guess, is that we all need places where we can escape from the demands of our life. Safe places. Where people take care of you because you've run out of gas in your ability to take care of yourself. Holy places.

They can be most anywhere and they don't necessarily have to look or act all that holy, but they are. And we need them as much as we need air to breath and water to drink and food to eat.
Because they get us through.

Unless you ask Jodee, the owner of the Breakfast Club. Then the place is falling apart.